


idle hands

by gossamerghost



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, Atsumu learns to handle his anxiety, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Comfort, Coping, M/M, One Shot, Osamu is a good brother, Sakusa is quietly observant, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27658078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamerghost/pseuds/gossamerghost
Summary: Miya Atsumu has always found a way to keep his hands busy, because for him, the worst thing possible is being idle.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 344





	idle hands

**Author's Note:**

> I am putting a general warning here that I write Atsumu with anxiety in this fic mostly based on my own experiences with it! 
> 
> This fic does deal a lot with anxiety but it also talks about coping and learning when to get help. I think there are a lot of little ways that anxiety can show up in everyone’s lives, especially young athletes who are often taught to put their whole value in their athletic performance (I know that’s how it was for me in college.) Sometimes it’s just hard to recognize that these things we treat as normal are actually affecting us more than we realize. I wanted to write a fic about learning and coping and comfort when it comes to these kinds of things.
> 
> Plus, I see a lot of fics where Atsumu helps Kiyoomi and I wanted to write something where Sakusa is the one who helps him first.

**i.**

Miya Atsumu has always found a way to keep his hands busy; if they were busy it meant he didn’t have to fidget and if he didn’t fidget his mind would race and overwhelm him and his best days were the days where he didn’t drown in a river of his thoughts.

Atsumu had dealt with this need to move since he’d been young, wrestling with Osamu over the last pudding cup in the fridge or challenging him to a race up the hill to their childhood home. But when Osamu tired of play, Atsumu’s fingers flexed and twitched and he’d pick at the hem of a shirt, wringing and twisting until it wrinkled in his hands.

“Wanna go practice more tosses, Samu?” he’d ask, knowing the answer was _no_ because Osamu was already stuffing his face with a post-practice snack.

“No,” Osamu said, sticking his tongue out, food still in his mouth.

“Yer gross,” Atsumu snapped, picking up the spare volleyball they had at home from the ground and going outside to practice setting it into the air. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten._ And on and on and on he’d go until the tips of his fingers were too numb and exhausted to fidget in his lap. 

_Tmp. Tmp. Tmp._ went the ball against his skin.

Eventually, Atsumu would return inside and then bounce his knee beneath the table as he ate his own dinner, hands occupied with food, therefore in use, unlike his legs which reminded him of their presence constantly as his whole body shook.

His mother reached gently beneath the table to still his aching leg. “Atsumu, don’t shake, you’re jostling the table.” 

“Sorry,” he said, sheepishly, forcing his leg to stop. It took a tremendous amount of focus for him to keep still, every muscle in his body searing with a fire to _go, go, go_. 

**ii.**

In high school, the fidgeting didn’t get much better, but now Atsumu could temper it better (see also: ignore it) with volleyball practices where he was surrounded by people who better understood his seemingly insatiable hunger for improvement and play.

High school was also the start of the escalation of his anxiety into a constant uphill battle. Every bit of Atsumu’s heart and soul was poured into volleyball and that was it. Other people, other things, they didn’t need to matter if he could score with a no touch ace, could get a one touch on a block, could hit a spike Osamu set to him. If people liked him, well that was great, but again, it didn’t matter. He had a built in best friend, after all. But Osamu didn’t seem consumed in quite the same ways. The anger that roiled beneath his skin didn’t explode out every other second like it did from Atsumu. 

When they fought it was like opening a dam of emotion. Atsumu liked the fighting, it was just another outlet he could use to release whatever the fuck was crawling beneath his skin and fucking up his serves. Osamu on the other hand, decidedly did _not_ like fighting. 

He said as much one morning as they walked to practice together. “Stop startin’ shit with with me, Tsumu. It’s driving me crazy.”

“‘m not startin’ shit with ya.” Atsumu protested, albeit halfheartedly. 

“Ya are and it’s exhausting… and Suna keeps posting it on twitter.” Osamu complained, showing him a tweet with well over a thousand likes. It consisted exclusively of a video of them fighting. 

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

Osamu stopped walking and Atsumu stilled beside him. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Atsumu lied.

“Yer a really bad liar,” Osamu sighed. “And anyway, twin telepathy, or whatever. I know somethin’s up. Just tell me.”

Atsumu frowned, puzzling through his suddenly racing thoughts. What was the best way to describe what was wrong? Was there a way? He’d never heard Samu describe feeling this way, never seen him fidget and fuss in the same way. Could he even know what was going on with Atsumu?

“I can’t sit still,” Atsumu blurted out. Ah, well, that _was_ a _part_ of the problem.

Osamu blinked at him, “Yeah, obviously. Did ya think I didn’t spend the last sixteen years growin’ up with yer ugly mug? That’s not _new_.”

Atsumu shook his head. “Nah, it’s not. But it’s worse. And when I can’t find an outlet, it makes my thoughts fuzzy. And I worry, a lot, ‘bout little things here and there. But those little things pile up and then I feel like there are so many little things that I’m drownin’ under ‘em.”

He sucked in a deep breath, glancing over at his brother who had a surprisingly tender look on his face. “Does that make sense?”

“Total sense, Tsumu.” Osamu said, patting his shoulder. “Thanks fer telling me.”

“Well, then, what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Osamu shrugged. “It sounds like ya have anxiety. Lots of people do.”

“Huh,” Atsumu hummed as they resumed walking. “I never thought of that.”

“I’m not sure ya think ever.” Osamu cackled.

“Jerk,” Atsumu snapped.

“Corn Head.” Osamu retorted.

Even with a new word for his feelings and hours of doom-scrolling about it, Atsumu mostly moved on with his life. He tried to be more conscientious about his temper and bought a little fidget cube from a gachapon that had five different colored varieties. Yellow was the color of the one that popped out of his capsule. Atsumu found the color relaxing and the cube kept his fingers busy when other things (see: volleyball) couldn’t.

Things once again came to a head for Atsumu and his mess of unsorted feelings as the selections for the All-Japan Youth Training Camp. Osamu hadn’t been selected which meant that Atsumu would be truly left to his own devices for the week. In Tokyo. Again, without Osamu. For a moment the thought was dizzyingly and frighteningly blinding. The world melted away and while pride swirled in his heart, something sneakier and more vicious slunk beneath it all, threatening to overwhelm him.

Atsumu and Osamu had another blowout fight. When Atsumu, later, after calming down, had cornered Osamu, begging to know why he wasn’t more bothered, Osamu explained that he was bothered at how much he _didn’t_ mind not being picked. Atsumu’s hands balled into fists.

“I think you love volleyball just a teensy bit more than me,” Osamu had said to him, wistful and maybe just a tinge of sadness. Atsumu wanted him to be jealous, angry, and he wanted his twin, his partner in crime to have the same shaky itch beneath his skin as he did, the same fear of separating.

“It just makes me feel better,” Atsumu relented. “But it’s gonna suck to not have ya there, Samu.”

Osamu glanced at him. “I think you should talk to ma about yer anxiety.”

Atsumu frowned, picking at the loose zipper of his hoodie, dragging it mindlessly up and down, soothed by the _zzz, zzz, zzz_ sound it made. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe, you’ll feel better if you’re getting help.”

“Maybe,” Atsumu agreed and Osamu ruffled his hair. 

“Let’s go get something to eat,” Osamu grinned. “Yer treat, eh?”

**iii.**

As a Jackal, Atsumu felt the most at ease as he ever had, in volleyball and in life. Here, he was surrounded by challengers and allies at every turn. Here, he had Hinata who cheerily reminded him to take his meds every morning over breakfast (because Atsumu would sometimes forget). Here, there were others, like Meian, who had overcome their own mental health battles in order to continue to play professionally. Here, he could be Astumu, a young man who managed his anxiety and looked after himself. In fact, he _had_ to look after himself if he was to continue to play the sport he loved for as long as possible. It was easier for Atsumu to work through the bad days with that in the back of his mind.

There were, of course, still days where the shaky unease and dread came back to him, where taking every practiced, promised, perfected step to prevent the cloud from coming failed and he had to battle through it.

Today was one of those days and the worst of it hit in the middle of practice. Readying to set to the next spiker in line for their drill, he could feel it like a train entering a subway tunnel and the shadows at the edges of his vision seemed to sharply narrow, throwing his set off and crooked, too high and too far past Sakusa who jumped, but didn’t swing as he knew the moment the toss left Atsumu’s hands, it wouldn’t be hittable.

“What the hell,” Sakusa said, half under his breath but half directly to Atsumu’s face. Across his face was an obvious shadow of disappointment but just below it flashed something that might’ve been recognition.

Atsumu straightened up, shaking himself off. It felt like there were a thousand ants crawling in his shoes. “Sorry,” he said, crackling through his knuckles just to occupy his fingers. Then he said again, “Sorry.”

Meian called out from across the court where he’d been stretching, “Miya, you good?”

Atsumu rubbed his eyes, trying incredibly hard to shake off the settling fog. It wasn’t working. What was a good lie? “I’m just -- I feel real nauseous.”

Meian frowned but didn’t push. “Don’t throw up on the court. Go lay down, we can do serve drills while you’re out.”

There was a knot big enough to choke forming in Atsumu’s throat and he managed a nod, stumbling a bit as he hurried out of the gym. 

_How embarrassing._ He scolded himself but immediately backed off, he had to regulate the negative thoughts. _Breathe, Tsumu, breathe. Ya can call Samu after practice to debrief if ya need to. Just sit down and get through the worst of it._

The locker room was oppressively hot when he pushed through the doors and stumbled to the bench in front of his locker. _Cool_ was its metal against the sweat-drenched back of his shirt as he laid down on it. For a moment he debated peeling his tee off but he knew he didn’t have any extras at the ready -- they were on his laundry loop getting washed clean by one of the managers.

“Fuck,” Atsumu hissed out, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyelids until he could see orbs of light flash behind them. Every inch of his body tingled in the same way it did when he’d had too much caffeine and he hadn’t even had his usual cold brew that morning.

The door to the locker room creaked open again. Atsumu considered shooting up to a sitting position but knew it’d make him crazy dizzy, so he stayed put, hopeful that whoever it was would just leave him alone.

“Miya,” a quiet voice called out. Atsumu’s whole body ran cold. _Seriously? Omi-kun?_

Sakusa cleared his throat, taking another step closer. “Miya.”

Atsumu dropped his hands from his eyes but refused to answer. Sakusa Kiyoomi: Tall, dark, and handsome. (See also: a big fat jerk.) Sakusa Kiyoomi who, on his best days, seemed reluctantly fond of Atsumu, and on his worst, said shit like _I hate you and your stupid hair_ \-- which didn’t seem so bad until _he_ said it and then it felt like a knife to the chest.

“Hey, jerk,” Sakusa said.

“I really can’t deal with ya scolding me right now, ‘kay? Do it tomorrow or even later tonight.” Atsumu said, deflated and without any charm.

Sakusa huffed out a sigh. “You need to take care of yourself.”

Atsumu blinked into the brilliant yellow overhead lights of the locker room, temporarily blinding himself. The light was quickly eclipsed though as Sakusa, surprisingly maskless, leaned over him. “I am,” he said, weakly.

“You look like a mess.” Blunt, as always.

“Can ya please be a lil nicer, Omi Omi? I don’t have the energy to quip back atcha today.”

Sakusa thought about it. “If I’m nice to you, are you going to turn around and tell Hinata?”

“No,” Atsumu replied immediately.

“Promise?”

“What, are we kids?” Atsumu coughed out, dry and tired, but Sakusa’s gaze was as serious as it was soft. It stirred something tender and warm in Atsumu’s chest. He breathed out, “Promise.”

Then Sakusa shrugged his hoodie off, setting it on the ground beside Atsumu’s bench and sitting delicately down on it. Atsumu tipped his head to watch him, arms wrapped around himself like a hug.

“Were you having an anxiety attack?” Sakusa asked outright. 

Atsumu shook his head, “Not quite. Today’s just an off day.”

Sakusa nodded.

“Do you--” Atsumu started but then felt that the question he wanted to ask might be too personal. 

“Do I?” Sakusa prompted, drawing Atsumu back to him again.

Atsumu looked sheepish, pink burning its way across his cheeks. “Get anxious?” 

Sakusa’s eyes ran across Atsumu’s face, open and honest, laid bare for him at this moment. “Yeah, a lot.”

“With germs, right?”

Sakusa nodded, “And crowds and strangers and new places. It can feel really overwhelming like I don’t know who I am. My mind seems to turn to static in those moments.”

“Huh,” Atsumu said.

“What,” Sakusa said, expression snapping to a guarded one.

Atsumu shook his head, casting his fluffy blonde hair askew. “It’s just different for me.”

“Well, yeah, I would expect that.We are different people.”

Atsumu half-smiled at that, beginning to fidget with his fingers. “Yeah, but not so different, I guess.” 

“What’s it like?” Sakusa asked.

Atsumu crunched his fingers into fists before dropping them down, his right arm falling before Sakusa. 

“When it’s really bad I feel like I’m drown’ and nobody can hear me. And I need to move a lot. It helps get that nervous energy out, I guess. It’s why… It’s why I love volleyball so much. It’s why I love setting, getting to touch the ball in the exact right way to get it to go precisely where it needs to. I guess my worst nightmare is that my hands are idle. That they aren’t being put to use.”

Sakusa listened as Atsumu continued to talk about his experiences, how he learned to cope, the first therapist he ever had, the second therapist, _stupid idiot_ Osamu who had helped him figure everything out in the first place. 

It turned out, _talking_ was another thing that calmed Atsumu because if he was talking, then the words weren’t just rattling around, unheard and unspoken in his brain. 

Maybe Sakusa knew that. 

Maybe Sakusa knew that as he gently took Atsumu’s right hand in his own and traced the lines of his life’s fortune as he spoke and Atsumu beamed at him. 

“Omi, aren’t my hands so soft?” Atsumu asked.

“Yeah,” Sakusa mumbled.

Atsumu smiled, a small and hopeful thing, as he looked at Sakusa drawing little patterns into his palm.

“I’ve gotta head back to practice,” Sakusa said several moments later.

Atsumu nodded. “Yeah.”

And later as they were packing their things up post-practice, Sakusa said softly to him: “Atsumu, when you get home, eat dinner and go right to bed. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Kiyoomi.” Atsumu said, purposefully using Sakusa’s _proper_ given name. However, with his mask on, all the expression Atsumu elicited from him was a quirk of an eyebrow adorned by two moles.

“Goodnight, Miya.”

Maybe Sakusa knew that Atsumu liked company so he started to let Atsumu pester him into coffee dates (to places with high _cleanliness_ noted in reviews) and to the movies where Atsumu would wipe their seats down and sneak treats into the theatre. 

Maybe Sakusa Kiyoomi could see the little ways he could soothe the storm that Atsumu would still have to weather here and there, but baring through a storm was a thousand times more tolerable with someone by your side. 

Maybe Sakusa started to keep his ringer on at night after Atsumu had a particularly bad night and had knocked on the younger man’s door until he’d let him in, bleary eyed and exhausted.

“You should take a shower, it’ll help you calm down.” Sakusa said and Atsumu complied. Kiyoomi returned to his bed and eventually Atsumu found his way there too, quietly curling beside him in the spread of blankets. He smelled of Kiyoomi’s favorite shampoo and spoke soft gibberish as he slept. They didn’t really talk about it. They didn’t really need to.

Maybe Atsumu started to keep a set of his meds in Kiyoomi’s medicine cabinet and in the morning when they’d wake up next to each other, sheepish and well-rested, they’d get up and take their meds together. If Atsumu was feeling particularly perky, he’d cook them breakfast which he was okay at, and then he’d promise (not for the first time) that he’d bother Osamu to bring them dinner one day soon.

Maybe their lives both changed a little bit for the better as they fell into a routine together and built a system of support for each other. Someone to challenge and push, to remind and scold, to comfort and care for. Maybe this was what it was to show your scars and learn to heal your wounds not necessarily _together_ but not _alone._ And for both of them, the safety of another was a promise that seemed too sweet to be true. 

But it wasn’t and they found that in all those little moments, they had each built a space in their hearts for the other. 

Maybe Sakusa knew this as they took a train from Osaka to Tokyo for a match against the Adlers and he couldn’t stop picking at a loose thread in his jacket. The repeated action bothered Sakusa, so he reached over and took Atsumu’s left hand in his own. Atsumu stilled, dropping his other hand to his lap and stared at the space where their hands met. The sensation was warm and overwhelming but… the contact did soothe the flutter of nerves jumping in his throat.

“Omi--” Atsumu said, voice curious, if a bit strained. They were on a train with all their teammates, after all. And while perhaps not a single one of them would be surprised by the revelation that their teammates had woven each other inextricably into the complex fabric of each other’s lives, it was still a secret that they’d had to themselves for some time now.

A flutter of heat and nerves slid through Atsumu’s body, sparking at the points where their hands touched.

Sakusa leaned his head against his neck-pillow. “Atsumu, shush.”

Atsumu wriggled his fingers until they slid gently across Kiyoomi’s, exploratory and curious, and then slipped past the warmth of that sensation to interlock their fingers together. Kiyoomi only waited a moment to reciprocate the gesture. 

“Omi,” Atsumu whispered, leaning his head against Kiyoomi’s shoulder, warm and familiar.

“What?” He sighed.

“I love you.” And he meant it because Atsumu couldn’t help but love this man with every fiber of his being.

“Mm,” Kiyoomi hummed. “I know that already.”

Atsumu’s heart leapt into his throat as he waited for another beat. Kiyoomi sat up, jostling Atsumu a bit before he gently tugged his mask down and pressed a kiss to the top of Atsumu’s head. “Of course, I love you, too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this lil piece. Kudos and comments, as always are appreciated. 
> 
> Come chat with me on twitter -- [gossamerghosts](https://twitter.com/gossamerghosts)


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